Even though I’m standing here with the evidence clutched in my trembling fingers, and even though my logical mind has already begun to piece together her motive, I have to ask. “Why, Edna? Do you really hate me that much?” I sink back to the stool, the money falling from my fingers to the floor.
Edna’s eyes blaze. “It’s not right. Ministers should be men. Especially senior pastors.”
I grimace. “And it’ll be a man again as soon as the search committee does its work. I’m a temporary fix.” I sigh and run my fingers through my hair. “You couldn’t live with a woman minister for a few months?”
“If it’s wrong, it’s wrong,” Edna insists, but she’s slurring her words. The Darvocet is working its mojo.
How many times have I had this argument? I decided several years ago that no amount of persuasion on my part was ever going to change someone’s mind about women in ministry. Instead, I’ve focused on doing the best possible job I can, proving by my actions I do indeed have a call. Except now, since I’ve decided to leave the church, my actions aren’t the effective testimony I used to think they were.
“Some people don’t think it’s wrong at all,” I say. “Some very faithful, very Christian people.” But my heart’s not really in my words because how can I defend what I’ve chosen to abandon?
“If it was wrong in my day, it’s wrong now.”
“What do you mean—if it was wrong in your day?”
A slash of fear sparks in Edna’s eyes. She clamps her lips shut and purses them.
Understanding cracks me over the head with all the force of Edna’s fictional assailant.
“Edna, did you have a call to ministry when you were young?” It’s the last question I’d ever have imagined myself asking Edna Tompkins.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Edna’s looped enough to slur her words, but she also realizes what she’s inadvertently revealed.
“You wanted to be a minister, didn’t you?” I press her.
Unexpectedly, her eyes grow moist and two large tears drip to her cheeks. Compassion swamps me unbidden. Why didn’t I see it before? This isn’t the first time I’ve encountered strong opposition from older women whose own calls were thwarted. Self-preservation compelled them to buy into the notion that any call from God they felt couldn’t possibly include the ministry.
“What did they tell you?”
I don’t really expect her to answer my question, but she does.
“They told me I was wrong. That it was Satan tempting me away from marriage and motherhood. Well, I’ve had precious little of one and none of the other.”
I’m so blown away by this unexpected discovery that it takes me a moment to absorb it all.
“They were right,” Edna snaps—or at least snaps as well as she can while under light sedation. “I was wrong to think I should be a minister.”
I could spend all day arguing the point with her, if she could stay awake. We could debate theology, pore over Scripture. Instead, I pull the stool closer to her bed, look her in the eye, and say, “Were you wrong, Edna? Were you? Or were they?”
This time I don’t look away. I keep my eyes locked on hers and watch the play of emotions there. Frustration, anger, resignation. It’s a wonder she didn’t do something drastic years ago. Taking the offering is minor, given the circumstances.
“I already said. They told me to get married and be a mother.”
But motherhood had never happened for her, obviously. And marriage had been a mixed bag at best. All that had been left was the church, which hadn’t wanted the real Edna, the one with a call to ministry. Instead, the church had taken her money and let her take her frustrations out on others. So now Edna’s just like the chair of the board in my last church that fired me. Human. In the midst of inflicting suffering on me, she’s revealed her own humanity. I hate it when parishioners do that. It makes it so hard to feel morally superior.
I want to find out more about Edna’s call, but the Darvocet has done its thing. Her head nods and then she’s off to la-la land. And I’m left sitting on the dressing-table stool, a wad of stolen cash at my feet and my self-righteousness tumbling down after it.
You’d think between LaRonda’s impending departure for South Africa and Edna’s thievery, I’d have enough problems to keep my mind off the debacle with David.
Sadly, no.
To add insult to injury, the fish he bought me died. It jumped out of the bowl, as eager to escape my presence as everyone else in my life right now. I’d say it’s an omen, but it’s not much of one if it happens after the fact. More symbolic than prophetic.
At some point I’ll have to face him again. David, I mean. Not the dead fish. I wish my problems with David could be disposed of with one flush of the toilet. Besides, I need to talk to him about this whole thing with Edna. LaRonda’s too wrapped up in her impending move to another continent. And she’s probably not the best person at the moment to help me come to terms with my ministry, given the vitriolic nature of her resignation letter. She sent me a copy of it via e-mail, and then I edited it for her, taking out the vitriol, before she actually turned it in. It helped when I pointed out she might need references to get another job in Nashville someday, and she might not want to burn every bridge.
So what will I do when David calls? Several strategies spring to mind. Pretense, as in pretend nothing happened. Denial, as in make a preemptive strike and say I was PMS-ing or something. The truth, the unattractive third option, is easily avoided for now.
After leaving Edna’s house I can’t bring myself to go directly back to the office, so I swing by St. Thomas Hospital to make a couple of pastoral calls. Nothing like a few IVs and heart monitors connected to your parishioners to take your mind off your troubles for a while. Especially when you make the rounds in stilettos, whose name must derive from the Latin for “please drive spears through my feet.”
When I finally do return to the office, Angelique is nowhere to be found. She’s probably off showing the sanctuary to a prospective bride. The stolen money burns a hole in my pocket, but it’s too late to simply return it to the offering box. The retirees who come to count on Monday mornings will have finished and gone. So what do I do with this evidence of Edna’s sins? A more Machiavellian preacher would head straight to The Judge’s office and lay the groundwork for her disgrace. But every time my thoughts go that direction, I see her bony spine and her injured arm clamped to her side. I feel the pain of a bedroom void of any evidence of a personal life. And I think about how the church shamed her because of who God called her to be.
David would know what to do with the money. I should call him. And I will. As soon as the next ice age passes.
I open my office door, and to my surprise, Ed is sitting in the chair across from my desk.
“Hi, Ed. Did we have an appointment?” Angelique is normally so good at juggling my calendar. I’d be lost without her.
“We need to talk, Betsy.”
“Oh.”
A minister dreads those words. They could be the prelude for anything from “I was so moved by your last sermon, I’ve sold all my worldly possessions and given the money to the poor” to “I’m here to fire you.” I’ve had more personal experience with the latter.
“Is there a problem?”
“It’s about the offering.”
“Yes?” Like Edna, butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth. I force my hand not to reach for the pocket of my khakis.
“Edna called me half an hour ago. She told me everything.”
Again, it must be the Darvocet. “So you know what’s been happening to the cash offering?”
Ed nods sadly. “Yes. It’s a shame, Betsy.”
I nod sagely. “Yes, isn’t it?” I lean back in my chair, breathing a little easier for the first time since Saturday night. “I’m glad I don’t have to keep the secret anymore.”
Ed lifts one hand to fiddle with his bow tie. “Well, yes, I can see where you’d be relieved at some level.�
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His tone sets off an alarm bell in my head. He twists his tie some more and then gives it a final tug. “We can get you help, Betsy.”
“Help? I’m not sure what you mean. My biggest concern is how to return the offering with no one being the wiser.”
Ed’s nostrils flare. “That’s not the attitude I expected from you, Reverend Blessing.”
I can’t believe I’m indignant on Edna’s behalf, but surely he wouldn’t want to expose his own sister this way. “I’m not willing for this congregation to suffer for one person’s mistake. Not when it can be so easily rectified.”
Ed’s pale cheeks grow whiter. “I hardly see grand theft as a ‘mistake,’ as you put it. If you needed money, you should have come to the committee.”
“Excuse me?” The floor drops out from under me.
“I’m aware we were rather hasty in refusing to raise your salary to compensate you for your additional responsibilities. But negotiation would have been far preferable to theft.”
My laugh comes out more like a bark. “You think I took the money?”
“Edna told me you confessed everything to her.”
“Did she?” Clearly I overestimated the painkillers and underestimated the woman.
“She set a good example of Christian charity, Betsy. Told me we shouldn’t call the police, not if you agree to resign and go quietly.”
I resist the temptation to lean over my desk and see if Ed’s fly is zipped. “I didn’t take the money.”
“It’s too late for denials.” He holds out his hand. “I think you’d better give me the money, Betsy.”
“No.” This time I’m not going quietly. I will not be complicit in the destruction of my ministry yet again. Plus, a felony conviction would really put a monkey wrench in my law career. “If you want the money, call a meeting of the personnel committee. I’ll be happy to attend.”
Ed sighs. “There’s no need to make so many people aware of this mess.”
“I think there’s a great deal of need. And I think Edna should be there as well.”
“That’s impossible. She’s still at home recuperating.”
“Then we’ll have the meeting at her house.”
Ed’s looking at me like I’ve sprouted horns and a tail and I’m hefting a pitchfork. “I never expected this of you, Betsy.”
“Well, that’s something at least. I’m glad to know my alleged kleptomania comes as a complete shock. At least your opinion of me was that high to begin with.”
He shakes his head and pushes himself out of the chair. “Perhaps I should call Dr. Black.”
I can feel the heat of anger rising up my neck and spreading across my cheeks. “If you call Dr. Black, I will file a lawsuit for slander. Are we clear on that, Ed?”
The mere mention of a lawsuit is enough to send him into a tail-spin. “Now, now, there’s no need for that.” He pats the air as if he’s trying to soothe it. “I’ll call the meeting.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
And he’s gone without a backward glance. I collapse into my chair. How easily it can all fall apart. It’s just like the last time, only now I know exactly what’s happening. I know Edna is the engineer of my demise. And this time I won’t agree to put my tail between my legs and head for the hills. No, this time I’m going to fight. And I’m going to win.
The upside of the accusation against me is that I feel extremely empowered. The downside is that I have to call David to get Cali’s phone number because I’m going to need her to corroborate my story. The Darvocet must have deleted that particular bit of information from Edna’s memory. That or she thinks I’m bluffing—the spiritual equivalent of a round of Texas Hold ’Em.
With great reluctance I dial David’s direct number at St. Helga’s. To my simultaneous relief and dismay, I get his voice mail.
“Hi, this is David, pastor of St. Helga’s Church. Leave a message and pray I remember to get back to you.”
I can’t believe he actually has that on his machine, but I’m sure his parishioners have become accustomed to his—shall we say “distinctive”?—sense of humor.
“Hey, David. It’s Betsy. Give me a call.” Just the right tone. Friendly, casual. No sign of the desperate spinster who flung herself at him two nights ago. “By the way, the betta died.” Why did I say that? “Not that it’s important. Or, I mean not that the information is important. Obviously the fish was important to me.” I’m babbling and I can’t stop. “Anyway, give me a call.”
I hang up as quickly as possible before I can do any more damage. Then I sit back in my desk chair, fold my hands in my lap, and pray.
LaRonda would chastise me for this passive approach to my predicament. I choose not to think of it as passivity but as strategic delay. But I can’t be strategic for too long. I only have until tomorrow to mount my defense.
Angelique reappears fifteen minutes later with a pink message slip in her hand. Ed’s been true to his word and has called a meeting of the personnel committee for 5:00 p.m. tomorrow here at the church. Apparently Edna possesses remarkable recuperative powers. Motivation is everything.
Then, twenty minutes later, when my stomachs starting to protest its lack of a noon feeding, a taller shadow darkens my doorway.
David.
I’m so glad I’m sitting down. I’m even more delighted I was pretending to work on Sunday’s sermon while I waited for him to return my call. I lay down my pen and close the commentary on Romans without actually having read a word of it. Given my current situation, it’s hard to work up much enthusiasm for the pros and cons of circumcision among first-century Christians.
“This is a surprise.” I wish I’d made some attempt this morning to apply makeup to go with the stilettos. And my hair looks more Bozo than Britney.
“Hey, Betz.” He shifts from one foot to the other. “Can I come in?”
I hate this so much, this stupid awkwardness. All I want to do is spill my guts to my best pal. Instead, my stomach is in a tailspin over the surprise appearance of a man who makes me deeply aware I’m first and foremost a woman, not a preacher.
“Of course you can come in.” I don’t mean to bark the words. Great. Now I both look and sound like a terrier. Would it be awful if I excused myself long enough to run to the salon for a shampoo and style?
David slides into the chair so recently vacated by Ed. He swipes his hair out of his eyes (I’m usually the one who reminds him to get it cut) and rests one hand on each of his thighs. It’s a thoroughly masculine pose, and I can’t help it if I melt a little.
“How’ve you been?” he asks.
“Um…fine.” Is this a trick question? Does he really think I’m going to part with that kind of classified information when it revolves around him?
“Look, about Saturday night—”
“Edna Tompkins has accused me of stealing the offering.” Betsy Blessing, master of the diversionary bombshell.
“What?”
“She said I stole the cash offering.”
David leans forward in his chair. “And Edna’s the real culprit, right?”
“Very astute. You’ve been reading your Agatha Christie again.”
“So the Web cam worked?”
“Yep. Only it’s pretty much my word against hers. Except for…”
“Except for what?”
“Except for Cali.” I rush the words out of my mouth, wishing I could duck for cover under my desk.
David scowls. “What does she have to do with Edna stealing the offering?”
“Cali came to see me yesterday. She’s my corroborating witness.”
“She saw Edna steal the offering?”
“Yep. I need her to come to the personnel meeting tomorrow and tell them what she saw.”
“Will Edna be there?”
“Yes. Better than a lineup.”
David’s gaze suddenly intensifies. “Why was Cali here in the first place?”
I’d hoped to avoid this line of questio
ning. “Oh, just girl stuff.”
“She wanted to talk to you about me, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Specifically?”
I’m about to do the verbal equivalent of a Bolshoi ballerina pirouetting around the stage. Wonder how fast my words can dance around the truth?
“She told me you broke up with her.”
David slouches down in his chair. “I had to, Betz. She was way too young.”
“Apparently she didn’t take it well.” I stifle all the “I-told-you-so’s” fighting to escape my lips.
David rubs his right shoulder. “I wasn’t expecting violence.”
“She hit you?” I don’t know whether to laugh or go after her myself.
“Maybe I deserved it. I shouldn’t have asked her out in the first place.”
No, you moron, you shouldn’t have. You should have asked me out instead. I also refrain from saying these things aloud.
“Will you call her for me?” I ask, wishing I had some actual feminine wiles to employ.
“I can’t, Betz. She’ll think I’m trying to get back together with her.” He leans over the desk, picks up my pen, and scribbles a number in the margin of my sermon notes. “You can call her, though.”
“Great.” Which is the exact opposite of what I actually mean, but that seems to be my MO with David these days.
“Betz?”
I look up from contemplating the phone number. His luscious brown eyes are focused on me. Forty-eight hours ago, I would have given anything for that. Again, I like the option of diving for cover under my desk.
“What?”
“We have to talk.”
“No, we don’t. Not really.” I pick up the pen from where he left it and open the commentary. “I prefer to pretend Saturday night never happened.”
“If we don’t talk about it, how can we get past it?”
“You mean you’re not over it?” I am so Edna-like in this moment that it’s completely frightening. And what I wouldn’t give for a couple of Darvocet to dull the pain right about now.
David pushes himself up out of the chair. He towers over me, clenching the fingers on one hand in frustration. Someone who didn’t know him as well as I do might not catch that telltale sign. “I’m not going to keep banging my head against your walls, Betz. Call me when you’re ready to talk. Real talk. Not this weird denial stuff.”
Heavens to Betsy Page 18